


Dream a Little Dream

by nocturnias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post Reichenbach, birthday gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/pseuds/nocturnias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday fic for peetaholmes from Tumblr. Moran is gone and life is returning to business as usual for Sherlock.  So why has he shown up on Molly's doorstep?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream a Little Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fluff. Happy Birthday, peetaholmes!
> 
> The BBC and Mofftiss own Sherlock, and I borrow them for love, not money.

If anyone were to ask Molly Hooper about Sherlock Holmes, she would have said with utter surety that he was a methodical, logical man and that he rarely subscribed to sentiment or yielded to impulse.

Which was why she was at a loss when he came knocking on her door at 2 a.m.

Everything was over now: it had, in fact, just ended that night.  Sherlock had shot Sebastian Moran in the morgue of all places, pretty as you please.  He’d worked out that the man was going after Molly to draw him out.  Moran had worked out that Sherlock was still alive and planned to remedy that.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t nearly as clever as Sherlock Holmes.

The Yard arrived there, Lestrade, Mycroft, John… it had ended up being quite a circus.  Molly had given some statements and was told she’d be needed in the morning at the station. She’d given a few hugs, murmured her “you’re welcome’s” and “just doing what I had to’s” and slipped away.  She had seen Sherlock look at her oddly as she left, as though he was trying to figure something out, but he hadn’t tried to stop her.

And now here he was.

She let him in.  She didn’t bother asking for his coat: just watched and listened.

He began to pace, firing off facts as though they were bullets.  There was enough evidence to prove his innocence.  Everyone’s reputation would be cleared.  John had punched him and then hugged him and he wasn’t sure which bothered him the most. No, he was sure: it was definitely the hug.  Mrs. Hudson had cried and smacked him repeatedly with a loaf of bread.  Mycroft had been, well, Mycroft.  But even he had looked happy. Which, of course, only left her.

Here he stopped, spinning around like a clock hand and staring down at her.  Molly looked steadily back at him.  Over the fourteen months he’d been gone, she’d been his sole contact.  And that had only been through one-way encrypted messages from him.  But he always knew whether or not she was all right.  He never told her how, but…he knew.

Gone was her stammer, her old eagerness.  This was the Molly who’d helped him that night, that morning, all those days after, simply by being herself.  Saving his life, looking after John, defending him even when no one listened.  This Molly was strong, brave, loyal… everything Sherlock might have seen earlier she was if he hadn’t been so busy looking at her.

Molly titled her head.  “Why are you here?” she asked.  There was no irritation there, only genuine curiosity.

He frowned slightly.  “You left,” he said, as though that explained everything.

She shook her head.  “Why are you here?” she repeated.

He took a step towards her, and then another.  He was now a mere yard from her, serene eyes meeting puzzled ones.  “Because here is where you are,” he said, again in that tone that it should be obvious.

She sighed.  His eyes sparkled in amusement.

He reached a hand up and briefly brushed long cool fingers against her cheek.  “I haven’t slept in four days,” he said, in the same tone other people might use to remark on the weather.

Molly’s eyes widened.  His hand cupped her face, eyes sharply focused to observe her reactions to his touch.  Finding that she did not seem displeased, he continued.  “I find comfort in your presence.  And as I have eliminated everything else, the impossible, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.”

He slowly lowered his hand.  “It’s very late,” he said.

“Yes,” Molly agreed, wondering if she was perhaps simply going mad.  That seemed a much more reasonable explanation for all this.

“We should go to bed,” Sherlock said, again in that ‘oh-dear-it-looks-like-rain’ voice.

“Yes,” she agreed again, because there was nothing else to be said.

He took her hand and gently drew her down the hall into her bedroom.  She got into bed, watched as he neatly removed and folded his clothes. Wearing only his pants, he slipped into bed beside her, gently turning her onto her side and curling his body around hers.

 “I assume you’re going to want to talk about this,” Sherlock said wryly.

Did she? She turned it over in her mind a bit then shook her head.  “No,” she said, smiling.

“No?” he echoed, and she heard the surprise in his voice.

She took his hand and pressed it over her heart.  “No,” she repeated, and the corners of his mouth slid upward.

She snuggled again him, felt him relax against her, felt how well her body fit against his.

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds.  Then: “You’re certain about not wanting to talk about it?”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

Molly grinned in the dark.  “I’m trying to sleep.”


End file.
